Public Service Broadcasting

So the sky fell in the other day out in RTE when the Pope resigned. It was decided that of all the big breaking news we have had recently this was the biggest and most deserving of the mobilization of the big breaking news machinery of Montrose.

So we had Ronan Collins cut short to allow Sean O’ Rourke on the News at One to do his thang for half an hour longer than usual. We had an emergency convening of the Prime Time team to knock out a suitably solemn analysis of the erstwhile pontiff and his possible successors. We had every religious affairs journalist this side of the Mississippi and their spiritual leader Patsy Mc Garry loitering in the halls of Montrose waiting for their chance, which inevitably came. We had theologians and academics of all shapes and sizes to decode the complex information for us, to make sense of this landmark moment. A landmark moment in the mind of some RTE executive.

A moment of utter insignificance to the rest of us.

We have had actual moments of significance recently, a couple of them. We have had tragic events which triggered the re emergence of abortion onto the national and international stage, we have had a debt deal done with the European Central Bank.

Ronan got to play his full hour of easy listening on those days and the sub standard midweek movies, The Break Up and Dinner with Schmucks went out as scheduled.

RTE; It's comfy behind the curve.

The Little Engine That Could

The largest Nu Luk (I know; gas) store in the world is in the Jervis Centre in Dublin. I heard this on the radio and as long as I live I will never forget the flood of pride that instantly assailed me. What a great day to be Irish I thought; the largest imposed per capita national debt AND Nu Luk store in the world.

There’s just no stopping Paddy right now.

Top Of The Sliabh

My ten year old came to me proudly the other night and proclaimed “Chuaigh Siobhán agus Seán go dtí an baile mór ag siopadóireacht”. “Great stuff” I said, “have a seat; there’s something you need to know.”

So I poured him a glass of Sprite, let him at the last handful of Quality Street and explained that that’s as good as it gets as far as the ‘aul Gaeilge is concerned. That the standard of his conversational capabilities will not improve one shred in the remaining seven years of his formal education.

That yes, he can contemplate having conversations in Irish when he leaves school but to make sure that they revolve around shopping excursions to the big town or if that is not appropriate he could perhaps look into the possibility of steering the dialogue in the direction of a description of a particularly appetising piece of sweet cake he has recently consumed. Meaningful conversation as Gaelige beyond these two core areas does not exist.

I told him he could relax, that it was one of our great traditions to reach the zenith of Irish at the age of ten. But I will be in the system for a long time yet he protested, surely I could learn more. Under no circumstances I replied. You can do no more; you have reached the Promised Land. Put your feet up, you’ve earned a rest.

“No slí” he says. “Slí” says I.

Irish Folk Furniture

A short film on furniture repair and recycling in rural Ireland.

Half The World

Unless Penelope Cruz calls round to give you a second opinion on that groin strain this is the best two minutes and forty eight seconds you'll have this Christmas.

Another Loose End Tied Up

The upshot of a heated discussion this morning on Twitter is that there appears to be no collective noun for snowmen. May I propose allardyce to fill the void?

As in " Oh Maura you should get yourself into town, the Christmas decorations look fantastic. I turned onto Grafton Street and my senses were assailed by an allardyce of giant, glowing snowmen. It was beautiful."

You're welcome.

Cúpla Focail: Bull agus Shit

I read with interest recently that Leo Varadkar is going to do all he can to improve his Irish; he would like to have more Irish.

Leo seems to believe that there is not enough bullshit in his life, that he could always accommodate a bit more. Leo thrives on bullshit to the point that wandering the halls of Leinster House all day every day is not exposing him to quite enough of the stuff.

Leo says this is all fine and well but take me to the source, the fountain, the spiritual home of this thing we call bullshit. Take me to the place that all other bullshit regimens around the world call Daddy. Take me to, take me to……… the gaeltacht. That's right, the gaeltacht.

The gaeltacht is where he is headed next summer to put his tolerance to the most severe of tests. Someone like Leo might think there is no level of bullshit that he cannot withstand but I don’t think he is aware of how much the gaeltacht ups the ante in this area.

This is a place whose sole raison d’être is the production of bullshit. It’s a vocation, a calling; these people are professionals. Leo may think Dáil Éireann gives him the edge but he is really stepping into the lion’s den here.

You haven’t seen bullshit until you’ve attempted to discuss European fishing quotas as gaeilge standing on a rocky outcrop in Mayo with a fella who insists upon being addressed as Aodhránichaneann mic Breathnachainnaidhgohiontach.

To which we say to Leo, good luck with that shit.

I on the other hand am doing all I can to have the Irish in my head removed in order to make room for something useful like Canadian recruitment agency phone numbers and last weekend’s Premiership results.

There is a gap in the market here for a hypnotherapist or some such similar practitioner, to remove all the remnants of an Gaeilge and the attendant bad memories and trauma from our collective consciousness. To clear the way for a full life, free from bullshit. Free at last.

Or as free as any man, whose name is not Leo Varadkar, can be.